


Hey, Babe

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Protective Stiles, Vulnerable Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:38:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: It doesn’t happen every time they’re out. But it happens. Enough that he stops thinking it’s strange.





	Hey, Babe

He’s late, and he feels guilty enough about that. Derek likes for the pack to spend time together, and makes a point to drive almost all the way to Palo Alto to meet Stiles for dinner once a month, to talk about the pack and emissary shit--it was their compromise, the way Derek could handle his emissary leaving the pack territory for four years.

And he is fucking _late._

The Camaro is parked near the back of the lot, and it makes him smile, because Derek and his fucking ridiculous cars always makes him smile, something he’s been steadily ignoring for the past three years.

They are pack and finally friends, and for fuck’s sake, he is the _emissary,_ he isn’t going to fuck everything up by dumping all his messy feelings on Derek.

He pushes into the crowded pub and it’s easy to find Derek, in the corner booth they always gravitate too, looking comforting and familiar in his dark shirt and  messy hair and stubble, his expression pinched as the server flirts.

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t really think about it--not thinking is one of his specialties, after all.

He nudges against the waitress as he slides into the booth, pressing up to Derek and giving him a wide smile. “Hey, babe. Sorry, I’m late.”

Derek gives him a look he is familiar with--exasperated fondness, and Stiles glances at the waitress, still hovering, though her expression has gone from flirty and hopeful to slightly sour and resigned.

“A pale ale, and basket of pickle chips, please. Babe, did you order?”

When she is gone, Stiles eases away from him, a little, and Derek gives him an unimpressed eyebrow. “Babe?”

“She quit hitting on you,” he answers, and  Derek’s expression goes startled and grateful. “Now. Tell me what’s happening at home, _babe.”_

“Don’t call me that.”

 

* * *

 

He’d always noticed it, of course. The way Derek looked and the way people seemed to respond to that.

And Derek’s discomfort with it. He'd definitely noticed that. He'd noticed the way Derek held himself, stiff and almost _fragile_ after he smiled and flirted to get the information they needed to protect the pack, the way he would go even more sullen and broody than normal, the way he hid in the middle of the pack when they all went out, accepting the easy affection that normally he didn't indulge in.

Stiles noticed _all of that_ , but it was after that dinner that he couldn't _stop_ noticing it.

Numbers scribbled on receipts after Derek paid for dinner, touches on his shoulder and elbow and wrist, when they were shopping. An overly familiar _sweetheart_ from the librarian when they were researching in Stanford's too big library.

And he saw the way Derek’s expression crunched in discomfort when he threw away the numbers, the way he scrubbed his skin to remove the scent of strangers on his skin, the way he flinched at that easy endearment. He saw it all, noticed everything and filed it away.

But he didn’t do anything about it until he graduated, and moved back home.

 

* * *

 

The girl is standing a little too close, and Derek’s shoulders are just a little too tense, and Stiles huffs a sigh as he juggles his Classico, ground turkey and angel hair into one hand. He slides an arm around Derek, pressing familiar and warm against his side. “Hey, babe,” he hums, dumping his dinner stuff into Derek’s half full cart. “Did you get the garlic knots?”

Derek shakes his head and Stiles flicks a smile at the girl in front of him, someone he recognizes vaguely. “Hi,” he says, brightly and Derek clears his throat.

“Stiles, this is Stacey York--we went to school together.”

Stiles nods, and tries not to think about how weird it is that Derek has people he knew before everything--before that day in the woods.

“I’ll let you get to it,” she says, sounding faintly embarrassed and Derek gives her a smile that is a little less strained, and nudges Stiles into motion.

They finish shopping like that, and when they go their separate ways in the parking lot, Derek calls, softly, “Thanks.”

Stiles waves a hand, dismissive. “Anytime, babe.”

 

* * *

 

It keeps happening.

Stiles will spot Derek, see the tension in him and the too-close guy, the aggressively flirting girl, and he’ll slip up, slide into Derek’s space with a _hey, babe_ and like that code phrase was one they trained with, all of the tension slid out of him, and he leaned into Stiles, his expression shifting to amused fondness.

Sometimes, he wondered what they were doing. If he would do this for anyone else in the pack, if they needed it.

Sometimes he wonders why it’s so easy, so natural, to pretend like they’re more, like this is their normal.

He never lets himself think about how much he wants it to be more than a favor. How much he wishes it was real.

 

* * *

 

Malia and Lydia are grinning at him and the club is pulsing. They're pressing closer than normal, aggressively parading him in front of the pretty bartender. And the guy is hot, but he feels like a piece of meat more than anything. He tugs a little on Lydia’s grip and gets a sharp frown from her.

A large hand slid over his hip, tugged him back to settled against a firm broad chest and lips brush the shell of his ear. Malia’s eyes go wide and he hears, poured in his ear like an offering, “Hey, babe.”

He smiles and sags into Derek’s embrace, and stays there, at the bar and later on the dance floor, all night.

 

* * *

 

“Does it--does it ever bother you?”

Derek watches him. It's been a quiet tension between them, since that night at the club and the pack found out. Since Stiles had tried to explain and Derek told them flatly it wasn't any of their damn business.

Derek shakes his head. “No. Does it bother you?”

Stiles didn't hesitate, just shook his head and leaned into the comfortable curve of Derek’s shoulder as Dr Strange played. “No. I don't mind at all.”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t happen every time they’re out. But it happens. Enough that he stops thinking it’s strange.

They’ve always supported each other, saved each other.

This is just another piece of that.

 

* * *

 

He’s sitting cross legged next to the grave, the cold April wind tugging at his plaid and his hair and his voice breaks as he talks to her.

She’s been gone from them longer than he had her, and sometimes he thinks it’s gonna get easier, that he’s going to stop hurting so much. It still hasn’t happened yet.

He props some lilies in the flower holder and sits quiet and still, the tears on his face cold.

He hears the footsteps but doesn’t turn. There’s an unspoken rule that you don’t talk to people in cemeteries, and even Stiles tried to respect it.

Until Derek sits down behind him, tugging until Stiles leans into him. “Hey, babe,” he murmurs.

Stiles makes a wounded noise and Derek’s fingers, wrapped around his wrists, tighten a little.

“Tell me about her.”

 

* * *

 

 

The night it happens, they’re out. The pack is walking through the woods on a full moon. He’s between Peter and Scott, and they’re laughing at something.

There is no strangers pressing for more, no one to distract, no emotional upheaval to steady.

It’s a normal night, as normal as any of their nights are. Stiles jostles Scott and trips over a root and Peter rights him with a barely concealed huff of amusement. Derek looms out of the dark on his left, gorgeous and sweaty and grinning, and takes Stiles from his uncle without a word. Stiles smiles up at him.

“Hey, babe.”

It slips out without him even realizing it. Later he might figure out why. Might put together that simple greeting with the sense of being safe, of being cared for. But in the moment, wrapped up in his pack and Derek’s wide eyes on him, all he knew was there was no place for that.

“Shit,” he stuttered, his steps faltering, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn’t,”

Derek shoves him into a tree, his hands gentle when his push is borderline violent, his lips soft when his body is hard, and shuts him up with a kiss that kills every excuse he could think of, silences everything but the breathless whimper Stiles lets out.

The kiss is wet and hot, just the right side of dirty, Derek’s hands grounding weights on his shoulders, and Stiles has a second to wonder why the hell they’d never done this before, and then Derek nips at his lower lip and he groans, a noise that even to him sounds like porn.

When Derek finally breaks away, it is to press frantic kisses into the soft skin of his throat, whispering too quiet for him to hear, and Stiles’s heart stumbles.

“Derek?” he murmurs and Derek tucks  himself tighter into the protective curve of Stiles’ neck. "You gonna come out, babe?” he teases, gentle.

Derek’s eyes flick up, nervous and hopeful and as lost as Stiles has ever seen him. It makes something in his gut clench and turn, and Stiles leans in, presses a chaste kiss to Derek’s lips.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and Derek smiles at him. “Hey, babe.”

 


End file.
